


Pancakes Two Share

by louciferish



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Cooking, Crimping, Denmark - Freeform, Food Fights, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Kissing, M/M, Pancakes, Post-Canon, no personal space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:54:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29949582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louciferish/pseuds/louciferish
Summary: "We can figure it out. How hard can it be? It’s just pancakes. Howard Moon can make pancakes.”Howard Moon can’t make pancakes, and they don’t figure it out.Five times Howard tried, with varying degrees of success, to make Vince pancakes, and the one time he finally understood what he was actually doing.
Relationships: Howard Moon/Vince Noir
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9
Collections: Trash Triplets Present (to our own surprise): The Completely Spontaneous Kiss Kiss Week Collection





	Pancakes Two Share

**Author's Note:**

> It's technically the end of Kiss Kiss Week (but maybe it's Kiss Kiss Month now?) and I wish I could say I had this idea last Tuesday and worked on it this whole time. But actually I had this idea last night and this is the fastest I've ever written 3,000 words in my life, RIP. 
> 
> There's something really special to me about writing a fic with the pancake crimp in it. That crimp is actually the first bit of the show I ever saw, viral Old Gregg clip aside, and it's the moment that made me sit down because I wanted to see what the _heck_ was going on. The rest is history.

**1: Pancakes for No One**

Knees drawn up to his chest, Vince sits on the kitchen floor drawing patterns on the scuffed tile with one finger. His ragged blonde hair is sticking straight up in the back, uncombed since they woke up, and the t-shirt he borrowed from Howard to sleep in is loose and flowing on his scrawny form, more like a wizard’s robe than a proper shirt. 

Howard purses his lips as he stands in front of the open refrigerator, up on his toes to see the top shelves. “We’ve got uhh… Weetabix and milk. Toast. I think there might be some yogurt in the back?” 

He’s dismayed to realize he hadn’t thought this through. His first ever sleepover, and he’d made no plan for _breakfast_. By the time he’d shaken Vince awake and dragged the smaller boy downstairs, his dad had already left for Saturday morning errands, leaving behind a note for them to be good and help themselves to the fridge. 

Howard might be panicking a little. He usually burns his toast. This is a disaster.

“D’you have pancakes?” Vince asks, peeking up through his fringe. He’s sketched a whole invisible landscape on the linoleum by now, scratching leaves onto the trees with his bitten-off fingernails. 

_Pancakes._ Howard’s had pancakes, but he’s never made them. Even his dad doesn’t usually get that ambitious. He bites his lip. “I don’t think we have the ingredients.” Mostly because he doesn’t know what they are. 

Vince wilts, drawing his knees up tighter to rest his chin on them. “Oh.”

And nope, Howard can’t have that. Before he knows it, he’s reaching for the milk and then shifting to the cupboard. “Nevermind, actually. We can figure it out.” Vince perks up, and Howard grins back at him. “How hard can it be? It’s just pancakes. Howard Moon can make pancakes.”

Howard Moon can’t make pancakes, and they don’t figure it out. What they do learn is that flour, mixed with egg, becomes sticky, almost like a snowball. An hour later, they’re both on the kitchen floor, backs to the cupboard, out of breath and grinning. Howard has a glob of flour and egg suctioned to his neck like an albino slug, and Vince’s hair is so dusted it looks totally white. 

“Think maybe I’ll have that yogurt after all,” Vince says, breaking off into breathy giggles the minute Howard turns to him and he sees the Picasso splatter of dough across Howard’s face. “You got strawberry?”

**2: Pancakes for Floor**

The first stop in their gap year is Paris, and that seems like the perfect place to make pancakes. Their hostel has a shared kitchen, and the ingredients are cheap and easy enough now that Howard’s not ten years old. He may have spent some of the last week before they left practicing. His bin at home may have witnessed a lot of failure. But he’s pretty sure he’s got it down now.

He doesn’t tell Vince what he’s planning, just creeps out of their room when he sees the other boy beginning to stir, so he’s scatting under his breath as he whisks the batter when Vince wanders into the common area. 

Vince looks more put together than he usually does in the morning, probably because it’s not just Howard who might see him. It’s not even noon yet, but he’s already in jeans and a babydoll t-shirt with some band logo stretched over his chest. One of his socks is yellow, and the other is red with pink polka dots. He wrinkles his nose at Howard’s scatting and slinks across the room.

“What’s that?” Vince asks, coming in to lean up into Howard’s space for a look. In answer, Howard stops whisking and spoons a bit of batter into the heated pan. He feels Vince straighten up against him. “Pancakes?” The eagerness is clear in his tone.

“Yup. You’re looking at a new man today, Vince. I am Howard Moon: Pancake Master.”

“Ooooh.” Vince leans in, pressing his torso to Howard’s arm to watch the thin pancake bubble and burst. He shoots a glance to the sofas in the common room, confirming they’re empty, before beginning quietly, “ _Eggs, milk, and flour_ \--”

“-- _Pancake power_.”

They fall into unison. “ _Look at his milky yellow sunshine face. Flip it now, flip it good ooh--_ ”

“Are you really going to flip it?” Vince asks eagerly, ending the crimp as abruptly as he started it. “Can I watch?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course, little man.” Howard panics internally, despite his assured words. He hadn’t actually practiced flipping them without a spatula, but how hard can it be? He’s dimly aware of where that same question landed him the last time they tried to make pancakes. He ignores that voice. 

Once the cake in the pan seems done enough, Howard confidently swipes his spatula around the edges. He tilts the pan back and watches the disc slide toward him -- a good start -- and then he just goes for it.

The pancake sails into the air. _Too high_ , Howard thinks, tiny eyes blowing as wide as they can go. He’s focused on that disc the whole time, so he witnesses the exact second it thwacks onto the floor by his feet. 

Vince is giggling, pressing his grin into Howard’s shoulder. “Alright. Well, at least it had a nice flight before it died. I’ll get a towel.” 

While Vince tidies up the mess, Howard sets his attention on making a few edible pancakes at least. He sticks with the spatula for the rest.

**3: Pancakes for Zoo**

Vince wakes up at the sound of the whisk beating against the sides of the bowl. He props himself up on his elbows and squints at the clock on the keeper’s hut wall. “‘oward, it’s not even eight. Can this not wait?”

Howard’s response is a full body flinch. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “I just thought… pancakes?”

Vince immediately sits up all the way. Howard hardly ever makes pancakes at the Zooniverse. He says the kitchen’s too small, too cramped to work in properly, and besides they’re too busy to spend the extra time making something nice. These days, Howard is all about cooking “proper” meals and loading Vince’s lunch sacks with fruit or carrot sticks. (Which Vince then slips to the bunnies and zebras, but Howard doesn’t know that.) 

It’s obvious why Howard’s making pancakes now, though. Last night was a _disaster_. Bad enough that Howard interrupted Kraftwerk Orange’s set with his jazz shite, but then to end up on stage in nothing but his pants…

They’re lucky Naboo arrived when he did, got rid of that Jazz Ghost once and for all. Still, it’s clear Howard feels bad for breaking up the band, and Vince isn’t going to say no to a couple apology pancakes. 

He squirms out of his sleeping bag and goes over to lean his hip against a sliver of counter, watching the disc in the pan change color from ivory to gold. The air in the hut smells like butter and warmth, and Vince smiles without meaning to, remembering what Howard looked like after that first sleepover they had, a glob of dough hanging from his ear.

Howard sweeps the spatula around the edge of the pan, rolls it back, and give it a little twist of his wrist. The pancake flips into the air and lands -- perfect, right at the center of the pan. Vince lets out a “ _whoop_!” and grabs Howard, hanging from his shoulders and hugging him tight.

“Don’t touch me,” Howard exclaims, ears bright red, and Vince lets go and drops back to the floor.

“Sorry. I got excited there for a sec.” He darts his eyes toward the pan. “Can I have that one? I wanna see if the flip makes them taste better.”

Howard ducks his head, grinning. “Yeah. You can have all the flip ones, little man.”

**4: Pancakes For Two**

Vince’s heels drum against the lower cabinet. He’s humming some electro nonsense under his breath, but at least his feet are keeping the tempo. He’s not dressed yet for the day, draped in his favorite kimono instead with his hair pulled back and his feet bare. There are five brightly-colored bowls surrounding his perch on the countertop, each with a bit of pancake batter in it, and Howard is whisking a sixth. 

“What do you think for this one?” He asks, “Shrimp and mushroom? Or maybe cheese and chive?”

“Cheese sounds good. Is that sweet one about done?” 

Howard glances at the pan, where the first attempt at improving on his old recipe looks crisp and golden, sprinkled with a lot of sugar and a dash of lemon. “Looks like it.” He sets down the bowl by Vince’s thigh and reaches for the handle. 

“ _Flip it now, flip it good ooh,_ ” Vince starts, and Howard joins in as he loosens up the pancake for the first flip.

“ _Flip it now, flip it good ooh  
Some are salt  
Some are sweet  
Some are fruit  
Some are meat_”

The flip executes perfectly. That’s the norm these days, but Howard still beams every time he does it. When he glances over to check Vince’s reaction, the other man has one of the batter bowls perched on his knees and two fingers thrust right into the center of the mixture. Huffing, Howard snatches the bowl back as a grinning Vince sticks his batter-coated fingers into his mouth. 

“Save some for the pan,” Howard scolds. Down the hall, he hears Naboo’s door creak open and knows he’d better hurry with making the rest. There won’t be any left for him by the time Bollo’s finished.

**5: Pancakes For One**

Howard wakes up on his first Saturday in Denmark to a silent flat. He lies on the fold out bed for a moment, staring at the white ceiling, spotted here and there with old water stains. There’s no sound of chatter from the telly Naboo and Bollo forgot to turn off overnight, no murmur of yips and soft trills from across the room as Vince speaks animal languages in his sleep. It’s just Howard, the empty flat, and the cold air seeping through the windowsill.

The bare wood floors are icy beneath his feet when he gets up, never able to justify lying about for long. He’s in Denmark. He’s making his acting dreams come true. He even has this little flat for a few weeks, rented on Jurgen’s dime, and it’s small, but it works. He has a bed, a toilet, and a kitchenette. What more could Howard Moon possibly need?

It’s his first Saturday, and he could be getting dressed, going downstairs to check out that cafe he noticed halfway up the block, splurging on a pastry and a cappuccino. Instead, he’s in the kitchen whisking the egg into the flour before he even realizes he’s doing it. 

When the pan is hot and the batter is the perfect consistency, Howard spoons in the first bit, breathing in deep as the smell of pancake cooking permeates the room. He hums under his breath as he watches it bubble, and it’s not until he reaches the chorus that he recognizes the song as Gary Numan. 

Reaching for the spatula, he loosens and then flips the pancake. It summersaults twice before landing, but there’s no delighted clapping or sneaky little crimp in his ear, just the sizzle of batter on the pan as the first disc finishes cooking. 

When it’s browned on both sides, Howard grabs a plate from the cupboard and flips the pancake onto it. He stares down at it, all golden brown and slightly steaming in the cold autumn air. It smells wonderful. It looks perfect. He has no interest in eating it, and even less interest in making several more. 

As Howard walks over to the bin to throw the pancake away, it occurs to him that he’s never actually liked pancakes very much. That’s not why he learned to make them.

**+1. Pancakes For No One, Redux**

“I know the time was different in Denmark,” Vince says as he stumbles out of his bedroom, “but that’s no excuse for you making a racket and waking me up at ten-- What’s that?”

Howard pauses mid-whisk. He’s got the largest bowl they own tucked under his arm, and unlike Vince, who’s still got a bit of bedhead, Howard’s already dressed for the day, shaved, his hair combed. He glances down at the bowl in his arm. “Pancakes?” he ventures, not certain that’s even what Vince was asking about. “It’s only an hour later in Denmark.”

“I was s’pposed to meet Leroy for brunch.”

“Oh.” The bowl tucked against Howard’s ribs droops toward his hip. Even his mustache seems to deflate. 

“I can cancel, though,” Vince says quickly. He gestures down to himself, still dressed in just the t-shirt and little orange pants he slept in. “I wasn’t going to be ready on time anyhow.”

“If you’re sure…” Howard’s bad at hiding when he’s pleased, and he knows it, especially around Vince. For all the other man claims to only read picture books and shampoo bottles, he can read Howard’s face like a crayon comic. 

Vince shuffles closer, grabbing a blanket off the sofa as he goes to wrap around himself and keep off the chill. “Did you learn some fancy new recipe for these while you were gone too?” There’s a bite to Vince’s question that doesn’t belong with his pleasant face.

He doesn’t need to go on his toes to see the countertop, but he does it anyway, like a kid peering into a Christmas sock on the mantle. Howard knows what Vince must be seeing when he checks the ingredients -- sugar, nutella, strawberries, lemon. There’s not a mushroom or a bit of sharp cheese to be found. 

Vince has an odd little smile on his face when he rocks back onto his heels. “Alright,” he says, ducking his head. “Looks good, I guess.”

Howard hums in answer, sets the bowl on the counter, and spoons the first portion of batter into the hot pan. When he turns back, Vince has two fingers in the batter again. Howard snatches the bowl away, curling his body around it. “Stay out of that till it’s done. You’ll make yourself ill eating it raw.”

“C’mon, Howard,” Vince wheedles, reaching for the bowl. “A little bit won’t hurt. It’s good.” He tiptoes in close, and Howard turns away, trying to block the smaller man with his body. 

It doesn’t deter Vince at all. Pressed flush to Howard’s back, his arms are long enough to snake around, dipping a finger in the bowl again before Howard jerks it away. He holds it up over his head, playing keep away, and Vince swarms around him. It’s almost like a dance, Vince ducking beneath Howard’s arm to plaster himself against Howard, chest to chest, up on his tiptoes so they’re the same height and straining to reach the batter. Howard tries to back away, but he bumps up against the counter’s edge. Trapped. 

Vince is nearly climbing him now, knee up on the counter about to launch himself up, and they’re both grinning and huffing with the fun of it. _This_ is why Howard learned to make pancakes. _This_ is why he couldn’t eat them when he was in Denmark alone. 

He ducks his head before he can think much more about it, and kisses Vince’s sunshine smile. 

It’s just a peck, then a pause, and Vince curls his fingers into the collar of Howard’s paisley shirt and tugs him back down for a proper one. It’s even nicer when there’s no one pointing a sword at them, and Howard drops one hand away from the bowl to cup Vince’s cheek, swipe his thumb over the pinprick stubble lingering there and curl his fingers behind Vince’s ear, tucking back a lock of hair until he feels Vince shiver and try to press closer. It’s impossible. They can’t get any closer.

Howard thinks maybe they can cancel the rest of their plans for the day. Naboo can mind his own shop. Then, he notices the smell of burning. 

Just like that, Howard drops everything he’s doing to turn back to the pan. Everything, including the bowl. In seconds, as Howard scrambles for the burning pancake, it all comes crashing down. The huge bowl upends, and a rain of raw pancakes batter pours down, splattering like white paint over both Vince and himself.

He gets the pan off the hot burner and switches it off, but it’s too late for the poor pancake, which is merely black ash now. Howard makes a small, sad noise as he mourns it. All these years of practice, of Howard Moon: Pancake Master, and it’s over. He’ll have to resign his title over a few seconds of snogging. 

Before his mind can wander too far down that path, he feels a tug on his shirt. Howard turns to find Vince, pancake batter splattered across his shirt, his pants, his _hair_ , but still smiling. In fact, when he sees Howard’s face, he breaks into a cackle.

“There’s pancake in your mustache,” Vince says between gasps, winding his fingers between the buttons of Howard’s shirt. 

“We’d better begin tidying up,” Howard answers solemnly, but he offers no resistance at all when Vince crowds him back up against the sticky counter again and leans up for another kiss. 

In the end, they meet Leroy for brunch after all, and none of them mentions that it’s the first time Vince has ever turned up in public with his hair still damp.

**Author's Note:**

> I want pancakes now


End file.
